


Props and Pillars

by thepointoftheneedle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: "She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose hard but the scene at her apartment was playing like a movie on her retinas so she opened them again and tried to look around her.  She needed to replace the horror of that mental image with something wholesome.  The coffee shop was one of those trendy, independent places.  The furniture was mismatched and old but sturdy and well made.  The walls were decorated with movie posters and bookshelves.  The whole place smelled like coffee and vanilla and the air was warm and slightly damp from the milk frother and wet coats.  She looked over to the counter where her barista was placing a cookie on a plate and heading across to her with a tray.  “Oh I didn’t order…”"
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 19
Kudos: 104





	Props and Pillars

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another coffee shop AU. Poor Ethel is pining but Forsythe is smitten with the distraught girl who is drinking camomile tea on Valentine's Day.

VALENTINE’S DAY  
Betty was terribly aware of the panic in her chest. It felt like one of those tiny birds she had seen hunters trapping in nets when they were in Italy last summer with Adam’s family. It fluttered and quivered against her sternum and her breathing was racing and her hands were shaking and if she didn’t sit down and concentrate right away she’d become a screeching lunatic in the middle of the street and someone would call the cops and she’d be taken away who knew where and everyone would be proved right about her. And yet, suddenly, there was a coffee shop. The sign outside was illuminated in the early February dusk and yellow light spilled out of the windows into pools on the wet sidewalk. She could get a glass of water and a cup of tea and she could sit quietly until she felt less like Bertha Rochester. She just had to hold it together long enough to give her order like a normal, sane woman and then she could sit and recover. So it was important not to think about Adam until she had ordered and found a seat. No, NOT to think about him. Or her. Especially not her. And definitely not her long legs or her lingerie or the cruel giggle that came from her as Betty stood, stunned and stupid in her bedroom doorway while her fiancé tried to pull up his boxers and untangle himself from the brunette in their bed. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” Betty muttered as she tried to force the mental image out from behind her eyes, pushing the door of the cafe open and making her way to the counter.  
“Well good afternoon to you too.” Her head jerked up and her eyes met an amused gaze through unruly dark curls.  
“Oh fuck. I mean. I’m so sorry. I’m having a meltdown. Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” So now this poor barista was going to call the authorities to remove the crazy, cursing female from his workplace and all she could do was curse at him even more. Could trauma make a person develop Tourette’s? “Oh fuck it. A glass of water and a camomile tea please and I promise I’m not crazy. Well I’m not THIS crazy. Bad day.”  
“Hey, it’s OK. We all have our yellow wallpaper moments. Have a seat and I’ll bring it over.” He smiled sympathetically and turned to reach for a tea infuser so it seemed like he wasn’t going to press a panic button after all. Betty surveyed the shop which was almost empty and selected a small corner table next to a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and sank into a low armchair with a sigh of relief and exhaustion.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose hard but the scene at her apartment was playing like a movie on her retinas so she opened them again and tried to look around her. She needed to replace the horror of that mental image with something wholesome. The coffee shop was one of those trendy, independent places. The furniture was mismatched and old but sturdy and well made. The walls were decorated with movie posters and bookshelves. The whole place smelled like coffee and vanilla and the air was warm and slightly damp from the milk frother and wet coats. She looked over to the counter where her barista was placing a cookie on a plate and heading across to her with a tray. “Oh I didn’t order…”  
“On the house. Lemon shortbread and camomile tea is a glorious partnership. And sugar is good for shock.”  
“Thank you. You’re very kind. Especially as I cursed at you for no reason.” Betty was embarrassed to be such a disaster that even underpaid and overworked wait staff took pity on her but the cookie looked really good so she wasn’t going to refuse it.  
“That’s OK. Just give me a call if you need a refill.” He moved back to the counter wiping a table and picking up a discarded napkin on the way. Betty nibbled her cookie and watched him as he moved between the tables with a relaxed grace. If Veronica had been here she would have been objectifying him like crazy and even Betty had to admit that the dark curls and the slim hips were indisputably attractive. It was also helpful that he was as different to Adam as one could imagine. Adam barrelled through spaces, shoulder barging his way through life. This man seemed to slip through the space like water; he was all ease and grace and it was calming to watch him. Great, now she was objectifying him. She suddenly realised that he was watching her watching him as he met her eye with a smirk. Just as she had begun to calm down she felt the blood rush to her cheeks in a furious blush. At that moment her phone began to buzz impatiently. The screen came to life to mock her with the photograph of Adam that she had taken in Rome on the day that he proposed and she couldn’t suppress the sob that seemed to come directly from her heart. She had been so excited that someone like Adam would want her. So excited that she hadn’t paused to wonder whether she wanted him. Now she had her answer. She straightened her shoulders, pressed the buttons that blocked his number, deleted the picture and then pulled the solitaire diamond off her finger.  
When she had dropped the ring into the front pocket of her purse she looked up in surprise to see the barista by her table. “Hey look, I probably shouldn’t say anything but that was the most quietly kick-ass thing I’ve seen in years. You blocked him didn’t you? Don’t forget the socials though. The instagram post of my ex’s new girlfriend did nothing for my self care regimen last year.”  
Betty looked up at him curious, “Ex girlfriend or boyfriend?”  
“Girlfriend. Looks like I didn’t just put her off me, I put her off men in general. I can see you’re going through it but, whatever he did, he really didn’t deserve you. It’ll get better. Can I get you anything else?”  
“Ha, a new apartment, a new job and an intact sense of self worth please,” she grinned to show that she was joking but in fact she wasn’t joking. She didn’t ever want to go back to the apartment she and Adam had chosen together, she couldn’t imagine sitting at the desk across the hallway from him at work on Monday and lingerie girl’s insane body was going to haunt her, whenever she caught a glimpse of the cellulite on her thighs. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”  
“What’re you going to do? You’ve got somewhere safe to go?”  
“Well fortunately for me my best friend is sort of an heiress with a Park Avenue address and unlimited sympathy so I’ll be fine. It just sucks to be the charity case. And I guess I’m going to spoil her Valentine’s Day date.”  
“I’m really sure that she won’t see it that way. Well if I can do anything let me know.”  
Feeling more in control after the barista pep talk Betty grabbed her phone and called Veronica.

ST PATRICK’S DAY  
Betty’s feet hurt. Her interview shoes were too high. It was unseasonably warm and she was sure her silk shirt would have sweat stains so she would have to keep her jacket on. She was forty minutes early which just looked needy and she was three blocks from the old apartment which was giving her PTSD style flashbacks to the night she left Adam. And then, just as she feared that she might begin to spiral, the coffee shop that had given succour in her hour of need was right in front of her. Today she was more in charge of her faculties and she noticed the lettering on the sign. “Props and Pillars” seemed a pretty intriguing name but it was true that it always seemed to be here to give her sanctuary when she felt desperate. She could get a latte and sit and rest her feet for a moment, touch up her make up and face the interview panel with renewed confidence. The hope that the sympathetic barista would be there was a secondary concern. It was the coffee that she wanted, definitely the coffee.

The shop was much more crowded today and she was momentarily disappointed when a young woman with a pink ribbon in her hair stepped forward to take her order. She shook off the feeling with a sharp rebuke to herself and a reminder that she was a career woman on a mission to live her dreams and she was not going to waste time mooning over sexy servers in coffee shops. The table she had chosen before was empty and she gratefully took her drink over to the armchair and sank into its comforting embrace.

She was almost done and the clock had run down enough for her to begin to head across the street to the offices of the online magazine that she hoped would be the next rung on the ladder to Betty Cooper’s Pulitzer Prize when the door swung open and her favourite barista staggered in under the weight of a huge cardboard box. The beribboned girl let out a squeal so high pitched that Betty imagined it would be audible to dogs and then began to babble. “Have you got it? Is this really it? Oh Jughead I’m so happy for you. We can put copies on the counter and sell them here. You can sign them. We can put up posters in the window.”  
“Ethel calm down. These are just the copies for me to post out for review. My editor thinks it’s good for me to send them with a personal note. And I am definitely not signing here. God, imagine that.” He shuddered visibly in disgust. As he rested the box on the counter he looked around the room and his eyes came to rest on Betty. She didn’t expect him to remember her but a smile came to her lips without her consent and he grinned back at her. “Hey you’re back. You OK?”  
Betty picked up her purse and strolled across to the counter. “Yes, doing so much better. Thanks for being so kind. Did you really write a book?”  
“Well, yeah. I guess I did.” He looked down bashfully but Betty could see the pride and excitement that he was feeling. “Can I give you a copy? Is that stupidly arrogant?”  
“No, not at all, but I want it signed by the author.” Betty grinned at Ethel whose smile was only slightly tight in return.  
“OK, who shall I sign to? I’ve never done this before.”  
“To Betty please.”  
“OK Betty, my first signed book. I hope you enjoy it. If you don’t please don’t tell people about it.”  
His signature was as sinuous and graceful as his movements and Betty was slightly distracted by his long elegant fingers and slim wrist as he gripped the pen but she had interviewers to impress and so she reluctantly took her leave after thanking the author who, the cover of her book informed her, was Forsythe P. Jones.

TAX DAY  
The first day on the job had been exhausting and exciting and amazingly validating. Adam had always dissuaded her from pursuing her writing as a career telling her that the job security at his father’s financial brokerage was more valuable than any notion of personal fulfilment. She was so happy that she was free of him, his family and the world of high finance. She had met her new colleagues at the morning meeting where they had all pitched ideas for content for the coming week. Betty’s contribution was a book review which had met with limited enthusiasm at first. “Well Betty, this is an unknown writer with a first book. I’m not sure we’ll get much traffic from this but thanks for the idea.” Cheryl seemed ready to move onto the next pitch but Betty was going to push for this. She knew it would work.  
“Cheryl, it’s an amazing book. And I know the writer. I can get brilliant human interest stuff from this. I promise you; it’ll fly.”  
“OK Betty, if you think it’ll work then I trust you. Your portfolio was outstanding, so go for it. On my desk by Thursday. And edit the restaurant reviews before you start on this please.”  
After six hours removing extraneous semi colons from write ups of taco trucks and horchata bars Betty finally pressed send and was done for the day. She grabbed her jacket, straightened her ponytail and refreshed her lip gloss. She would get a coffee; if he was there she would tell him how much she loved the book and then ask if she could interview him for the magazine. She had it all planned. There was a tiny voice inside her head which, weirdly, spoke with Veronica’s fancy-smanshy inflection and kept saying “Oh yes it’s just about the book. No crushing to see here. Move right along please. Who are you kidding Betty?” but she just kept internally shushing it. It was way too soon for her to start anything with anyone and she needed to concentrate on the job while it was so new. This could be her big chance to turn it all around and show everyone that she wasn’t some anxiety ridden, fragile little flower. That self image was how she had fallen into Adam’s clutches and allowed him to present control as concern, suffocation as security.  
She pushed open the door of Props and Pillars with a bright smile and a sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there on Tuesday either and Betty was beginning to feel anxious about the article. She didn’t want to fail at the first hurdle and she wasn’t loving all the proof reading that she was being assigned in lieu of her chosen subject. Even though she thought it would make her come across as a weird stalker she was going to have to ask one of the other baristas. She had a business card. It had the name of the magazine on it so he would be able to see that she was a professional woman not a crazy person. She could just ask one of his colleagues for a number. Failing that she’d have to contact his publisher and that would seem so much less natural. She didn’t know if she had the hutzpah for that. As it was she could just say that she happened to be working in the area and wondered how to get in touch with him about his book. Perfectly normal behaviour.

Ethel didn’t look like she thought it was perfectly normal. Her eyes narrowed as she handed Betty her tea. No complimentary cookie was going to be forthcoming today, that was for sure. When Betty asked for Forsythe she snorted derisively and said “He’s given up his shifts. He needs more time to write and do readings and stuff. He’s published now so he’s not going to make his living doing latte art.”  
“Oh, I just wanted to talk to him about an article I’m writing. It might get publicity for the book. Do you have a number?”  
“Well I certainly don’t think I ought to give out people’s personal information. You can see how dangerous that could be can’t you?” And yes, Betty had seen “You” so she did know how dangerous that could be. She felt herself flush with shame and begin to turn away from the counter holding her cup of camomile tea when she heard the other barista say, “Hold on. You’re writing an article about Jug? Don’t be so uptight Ethel. That could be great for him. Listen I’ll give him a call right now and you can ask him.” The helpful voice belonged to a dark haired young man with a snake tattoo on his upper arm and a big, open grin on his face.  
“Oh, thanks so much. That’s really kind. Here do you want my card?”  
“No, like I said, I’ll call him. Ethel’s just being overprotective. I’m Fangs by the way.” He stuck his tongue out at Ethel who was furiously wiping down the coffee machine and opened a door that Betty had assumed went through to the store rooms. She glimpsed a set of stairs as Fangs yelled “Jones” through the open door.  
Betty was pretty confused. Why was he here if he didn’t work in the coffee shop anymore? What kind of a name was Fangs? Had he called Forsythe “Jug”? She began to feel that maybe she was being pranked when her favourite barista appeared in the doorway. It looked like he had been asleep, his hair was mussed into a birds nest on his head with the same curl flopping over his eyes and he wore a T shirt that had seen better days along with plaid pyjama pants. “What is it Fangs? You said you could handle the shop.” He drew his fine wrist across his eyes and then looked directly at her. The blue gaze widened and then he smiled. “OK, you’re forgiven pal. I’m always pleased to see regulars like Betty. Get me a red eye will you Ethel?”  
Ethel huffed quietly and Betty noticed Fangs put his hand on her shoulder as she turned back to the machine.  
“You live here then? Ethel said you weren’t working here anymore.”  
“Well I own it so I’m leaving the daily grind- pun intended- to them but I have an apartment upstairs where I burn the midnight oil to get the second book out before my editor murders me.”  
“So “Props and Pillars”? That was your idea?”  
“Yes and no. It’s Faulkner really. His Nobel acceptance speech.” He closed his eyes to recite, “The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail” I’ve always been a writer, I don’t know how to be...me if I don’t write, but the shop has kept me while I tried to make a living from writing. It was a prop and a pillar too. My grandfather left me a little money to buy it and I blew it all to follow a dream.”  
They went and sat at what Betty considered to be her table and she told him she’d loved the book. She recognised the small town setting; she’d grown up somewhere just like it. Her heart had ached for the protagonist who had been too young and too vulnerable to endure the challenges he had faced and she had found the resolution both satisfying and thought provoking. The theme of family dysfunction and the twisted Americana imagery had been perfectly evoked. She warmed to her theme and may even have gushed. He stared into his coffee, mortified with embarrassment and failing to conceal his delight at her praise. “So I was wondering. Can I write about the book and give background? Talk about where you got your inspiration? It might get it more traction.” Suddenly his face fell but he composed himself quickly. Betty was at a loss to understand what she had said to ruin the mood but then he gave a barking laugh and looked her in the eye. “There was I thinking we were having a moment and it turns out that you were thinking about how to turn my sad backstory into the digital equivalent of tabloid fodder. Were you going to buy me a drink at least?”  
“It’s your backstory?” Betty’s shock must have shown in her eyes. “I had no idea.”  
“Well I fictionalised but I was always told to write what you know and what I know is homelessness, alcoholism and murder. If that’ll buy me a beer with a pretty lady hack then that’s what I have to sell.” His tone was bitter but his eyes were still soft when they met hers. She had the chance to turn this all around but it wouldn’t last long. Did she have the courage? She thought about how Adam had told her that she was a fool to sacrifice a secure future because of one “indiscretion”, about how she would never make a living in the city without him, how she would have to sponge off Veronica until the “Park Lane princess” got sick of her and then, finally, she thought about how he was always dead wrong about everything. She reached across the table and unpeeled the beautiful fingers from the mug he was nursing and held them. She looked deep into the soft blue eyes. “I’m sorry. There doesn’t need to be an article if you don’t want. It was just an excuse. I wanted an excuse to see you and talk to you and tell you that I’d loved your book. I wanted an excuse to look at you for a really long time. I hope that’s OK. If it’s not I’ll be on my way but I still think you’re a wonderful writer Forsythe.”  
“Jughead” he said inexplicably. She must have looked as confused as she felt because he laughed loudly. “Forsythe is my given name but it’s awful so I go by Jughead.”  
“Because that’s so much better.” Betty laughed until her laugh was cut off by his lips meeting hers in the most gentle and earnest first kiss that had ever happened in a coffee shop in the whole world.


End file.
